


i kinda like it here?

by lov1no



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: @ the ghosts who will read this: enjoy, F/M, Goodnight, M/M, by the way i lost all of my self respect while writing this, not because the content is weird but because im writing. HETALIA FANFICTION. in 2019, this is my first fic and hetalia is dead so like.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2020-04-06 20:57:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19070536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lov1no/pseuds/lov1no
Summary: ludwig is the head of a small press and realises he has a crush on their artist. his annoying no-good friends decide to help out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yeah so here's my first published fic. which is unfinished? and idk when i'll update it but? enjoy!
> 
> edit: just fixed a few mistakes i noticed.
> 
> edit edit: YEAH I FIXED EVEN MORE MISTAKES LIKE 6 MONTHS LATER

Twenty-eight years of life, and Ludwig Beilschmidt has never fallen in love.

Sure, he’s been casually infatuated with people. He’s been in a few relationships, too. These experiences, however, have been enough to put him off of dating altogether. Ever single one has been brief and uninteresting, punctuated with boring people and boring endings. Ludwig simply has more important things to think about—his work, his brother, his dogs. Plenty of things. 

All this has never really bothered him before, not really. His thoughts never seem to stray in that direction, anyway—even when Erzsébet looks at him with concern in her eyes, and when Gilbert makes jokes on his lack of libido, and his grandfather asks him why he’s so alone, Ludwig manages to remain largely composed. 

It seems to him, to put it simply, that he has all he needs—he likes his job, loves his friends, and considers himself a relatively accomplished person. Besides, beer keeps him enough company. 

And yet all it takes is a touch, and Feliciano Vargas, sporting a grin on his face, sends twenty-eight years of comfortable solitude tumbling down a hill.   


It’s embedded in Ludwig’s mind like a particularly sharp, unrelenting thorn. He’d been complaining about a headache. 

Feliciano had reached out and lightly placed his hand on Ludwig’s shoulder. Intimate. Concerned. Just like that. A gentle touch had been enough to turn Ludwig’s world in what seemed to be his own personal hell. 

Before that godforsaken moment, he could never have remotely considered the possibility of such a catastrophic event. A man like him? Please. If Ludwig had a sense of humour, he’d laugh. 

Ludwig saw Feliciano exclusively as a friend and a coworker—and an annoying one at that. Two years of knowing each other, and Feliciano had seemed nothing more than a lazy, loud man who wore crumpled shirts and got a little too drunk at office dinners.

Sure, Ludwig appreciated his talent and devotion to art. Ludwig appreciated his role at the press, and he appreciated the way Feliciano could make anyone laugh, and also how he danced around all the time—

Okay, so perhaps Ludwig had already considered the possibility of a similar catastrophic event. More than once.

So, the whole ordeal starts. Slowly, over the course of a few weeks, Ludwig starts to feel a myriad of loud, exhausting new emotions. He feels pangs of jealousy when Francis throws his arms around Feliciano’s shoulders. Waves of anger when Gilbert shamelessly flirts with him. Worst of all, a total, crushing inability to behave like his normal self when Feliciano is around. Whenever the man walks into his office, Ludwig’s heart seems to stop. 

With utter horror, he comes to a realisation: he is experiencing the slow, painstaking agonies of being in love. 

———

Erzsébet, observant as ever, is the first to notice. This is not a surprise to Ludwig. She has known him since childhood, and in many ways, can read him better than Gilbert. In fact, Erzsébet has a very special power: she is one of the only people who can embarrass him. Constantly, at that. 

(First place goes to his brother.) 

She tends to fuss over him a little too much, enough for Ludwig to feel like a little boy again. He's not one to be embarrassed easily, or at all—even as a child, a single cold glance was enough to send potential bullies scurrying away. Unfortunately, he has never been able to make himself exercise a single ounce of intimidation on Erzsébet. 

So he has to endure. 

“You’re screwed,” She tells him. “ _So_ screwed. I’m happy for you, though.” There’s a grin on her face. Ludwig tries not to bang his head on his desk.   


“Don’t be.” He groans, rubbing at his temples. “I. Ahem. How do are people able to do this? I haven’t been able to concentrate all day. It’s a nuisance.” He has a headache already. Again. Ludwig knows he is going to die before the age of thirty if he continues to take such obscene amounts of ibuprofen. 

“Man, it’s that bad?” Erzsébet asks, curious. She’s surprised at the whole situation, Ludwig can tell, but she’s trying to hide it. “Well, now you know how normal people live. Efficiency is hard when you have so many feelings messing with you.” She continues, patting him hard on the back. A little too hard. Erzsébet has never been the most gentle of people. 

With that, Ludwig promises himself he is never going to catch feelings for someone ever again. 

———

Next is Gilbert. 

One morning, a few weeks after the incident, his brother walks into the office with his usual shit-eating grin, looking ready to make someone cry. 

That someone, Ludwig guesses, is Ludwig himself.

_Here we go,_ he thinks wearily, and braces himself for the string of terrible jokes that will follow. It’s eight o’clock and he wants to go home already.

Gilbert saunters towards his desk, drops his ratty briefcase on the floor, and promptly falls on the nearest chair.

“So,” his brother starts, giving a light kick to Ludwig’s shiny leather shoes and leaning in conspiratorially. “A little bird told me you want to bang a certain Italian. Really really badly. Like, _really_ bad _—_ ” 

(Ludwig gives a small sigh. He’s used to this—he’s a grown man who runs a press of considerable importance. He can do this.)

“Gilbert.” He interrupts, opting for calmer tones. “Always a pleasure. Especially when you loudly announce my private matters at work.” He says, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

Something must be evident in Ludwig’s expression, because Gilbert’s grin only widens. 

“ _Well,”_ he enunciates, with a look that positively begs his brother to murder him. “Tell me everything. When did it start? When are you planning to make a move on him? What’re you going to tell Lovino? Mein Gott, Lovino is going to _murder_ you, it’s going to be hilarious…” 

“Gilbert,” says Ludwig, desperately trying to not lose his patience. He closes his eyes. “I’m not going to make a move on him. I need to be concentrated on my work. Besides, I’m clearly not the kind of person Feliciano likes.“ 

Gilbert rolls his eyes, taking a moment to reach out and mess up his brother’s neatly combed hair. “None of that,” he says, almost gently. Well, as gentle as Gilbert gets. Ludwig tries to pat his hair back into place, stifling an eye roll, and when he tries to argue, he is immediately silenced.

“Dude, come on, you’re twenty-eight,” Gilbert tells him, sounding a little frustrated. “In my humble opinion, you need to get laid. Like, now.” He seems to think for a moment, and suddenly his wolf grin is back, which is never a good sign. “You know what? I’m telling Francis.” 

At that, Ludwig feels a flash of panic, which is ridiculous, because he is a _grown man_. “No. Gilbert, listen to me,” he says, trying to not sound pleading. “You are not going to do anything of that sort—“

Before he can finish his phrase, his brother turns around, and, to Ludwig’s most profound horror, yells, “Francis, get over here!”

“Gilbert, _don’t you dare—”_ Ludwig hisses, but it’s too late. He can already smell French perfume.

“Good morning to my favorite set of brothers!” Calls a familiar voice, and Francis is by his side a few moments later. “Well. Second favorite. You needed me?” 

“Ludwig has a thing for Feliciano,” says Gilbert bluntly, and Ludwig gapes at him with a sinking feeling in his chest. A moment of incredulous silence is followed by a loud smack as he throws the nearest thing at his brother’s head. 

“OW!"

“You’re fired,” Ludwig informs him through gritted teeth.

“ _God_ , Ludwig, did you really just try to take me out with an IKEA catalog?” whines his brother, gingerly rubbing his head. “Why the hell do you even have that? I’m suing _right now.”_

Ludwig answers him with a glare. Gilbert is incredibly bold for someone so scrawny and pale—the human embodiment of audacity. “Get out.”

Francis clears his throat at the exchange, reminding of his presence, and Ludwig silently prays that he won’t have to suffer any further humiliation. 

“Feliciano? I didn’t think he was your type, darling.” He cuts in, seemingly thoughtful. 

“I don’t have a type.” Ludwig replies, trying to sound composed. “And don’t call me _darling,_ I’m your employer.”

Francis shrugs, unfazed. “Well, I think he’d be good for you. Really good for you, actually.” 

“Right?” Says Gilbert, still clutching his head. “I just think they’d be mutually good for each other, like—”

Ludwig stares at him. “Since when are _you_ qualified to give advice?” He says, exasperated. “Whenever you date, someone ends up in jail.” 

“Oh, come _on!”_ His brother retorts. “That was _one time."_

Francis shrugs, flicking his golden hair away from his eyes. “Gilbert’s got a point.” 

“See?” Gilbert nudges him a little violently. “Man, it doesn’t matter that you guys have nothing in common. Opposites attract, you know?” 

“For once, Gilbert, you’re right.” A new voice chips in snidely. “Thought you were physically incapable of that.” 

Gilbert crosses his arms and juts his chin up. “Shut up, Héderváry."

“I…when did _you_ get here, Erzsébet?” Ludwig asks as she materializes in front of him and takes the liberty of sitting directly on his desk. "And I suppose _you_ were the little bird who told my brother?"

His question goes unanswered. 

“You know what? I think Feliciano is _exactly_ what you need right now.” Francis says, starting to sound enthusiastic. The look on his face is absolutely typical. In fact, when Francis looks like that—which is very nearly always—things never go well. _Ever._ Which would explain why Ludwig has not found a single moment of peace in the past two years. “Feliciano is fun. And a great cook. You’re inexperienced, but he’s not. And he’s also a great kiss—“

“I don’t want to know,” Ludwig interrupts, mortified. 

“I think you do,” Francis shoots back with a little glint in his eye. Erzsébet snorts and high-fives him. 

“Francis, I’d say this as a joke, but sometimes I _literally_ forget why I hired you.” 

Before the conversation can go any further, there’s a bang as someone abruptly opens the door. Promptly making the situation worse. 

“Okay, kids, what’s all this talk about Ludwig and dating?” Says Feliks as he staggers in wearing something obscenely short and obscenely pink. “You guys know that whenever I hear those two words together I like, kind of black out.”

Ludwig groans. “Alright, exactly how long have you been—wait, Feliks, are you drunk?” He asks, mystified. 

“No. Maybe. Okay, kind of.” Feliks winces. “Please don’t like, fire me?”  


"What—I—" Today is the day Ludwig will truly lose his patience and never get it back. He feels his eyes flash with rage. “ _It’s eight in the morning.”_

_“_ I’m like, trying this new diet that says you need to drink vodka with every meal.” Says Feliks, looking and sounding intimidated. 

“Oh, Feliks.” Says Erzsébet, pulling out a chair for him. “Did you read that on the Internet?”

“No, I came up with it myself.” Feliks replies, winking, and Gilbert laughs, banging his fist on the desk and messing up stacks of paper. Ludwig tries not to twitch. 

He fails.

“Łukasiewicz. I am concerned about you.” He tells Feliks. Before he can say anything else, Francis straightens suddenly and puts his hand on Ludwig’s shoulder. 

“Leave that for later and listen to me, _mon ami._ Let me help you.” He says, serious. His eyes are kind, making it hard to look away. Ludwig has always grudgingly liked that about him—the unexpected gentleness. “I know Feliciano well. His family, too. I can give you advice, you know."

“Yeah, Ludwig, let us help you,” echoes Feliks. “Feliciano is single as a pringle, by the way,” he adds, giving another exaggerated wink. 

“And really, really cute,” says Gilbert, looking like he’s enjoying the scene a little too much. “So I’d act as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, hurry up," says Erzsébet, her grin sharp. "Or we’ll tell Lovino." She’s kidding, he knows, but he shudders all the same. takes a lot to do that to a man like Ludwig. “So, any questions?” She finishes. 

Ludwig groans, again, caught between martyrdom and a reluctant feeling of gratefulness.

“No, I think I’ll survive for now,” he responds, burying his head in his hands. His hair, which is usually slicked back neatly, is probably a mess by now, but he finds that he’s past caring. “Actually,” he adds, “remind me why I haven’t fired all of you?”


	2. Feliciano Gets Some Ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lovino scoffs. “Ha. It’s almost as if the potato’s in love, or something.”
> 
> The words strike an idea in Feliciano’s mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU THOUGHT YOU SAW THE LAST OF ME  
> hello i spontaneously decided to write this chapter today at 11pm out of nowhere wtf  
> thought this fic was gonna die but apparently not!!  
> hope u like it!! <3

“Lovino?” Feliciano asks after he catches Ludwig staring at him for the umpteenth time. He continues doodling little flowers at the margins of his paper, trying to make sense of it. “Ludwig is being weird. Really weird.”

He sees his brother look up from the papers on his desk, frowning. “He’s always weird,” Lovino replies, taking a hearty sip of his coffee and rolling his eyes. “Him and his brother, of course.”

“Lovino!” Feliciano giggles, dropping his pen to smack his brother’s shoulder. “Ludwig’s our boss, Lovino. And Gilbert’s nice! I don’t see why you can’t stand him. You’re so rude.”

Loving shrugs, but he’s grinning a little. “Yeah, and he’s German. That’s pretty rude in itself.”

“Well, alright, keep hating him. But I meant what I said,” Feliciano insists as he absent-mindedly tries to fix his hair, thinking of how Ludwig had looked at him like there was something truly, undeniably _wrong._ “Ludwig’s really not himself today. He wasn’t yesterday, either. Didn’t you notice? He keeps staring.” 

“Probably because you never get work done, you idiot.” Lovino swats at his paper pointedly, but Feliciano ignores it and starts drawing again, now tracing the figure of a cat. He’s always loved art, creating things—he could never concentrate in his classes at school, constantly yelled at by teachers. But it’s not his fault—he can’t help it! Feliciano tried back then, he really did— and he still does. His hands just seem to move of their own accord, and his brain follows along. 

He gives the cat whiskers and claws and an individual hair here and there. 

“Or maybe it’s because you never tuck your shirt in properly,” his brother observes, nose scrunched up as he leans forward to inspect it. “You’re so messy, _Dio Santo._ Your tie is crooked, dumbass.”

“Lovino, it’s not my _fault,”_ Feliciano whines as Lovino reaches over and starts to fix it abruptly, frown etched on his face. 

(He does it gently. He loves that about his brother, Feliciano thinks absently. Behind the sharp exterior—the insults, his cutting tone—Lovino is soft, like his soul is made of sea-glass or watercolors or any other dainty, fragile think Feliciano can think of. In that, they are very similar.)

“What is it with you and ironing?” Lovino asks, interrupting his thoughts. 

In all honesty, Feliciano is too lazy to iron. He doesn’t really have space, given that his apartment is filled with canvases—but he can’t tell Lovino that, as it would heighten the probability of an impromptu bout of cleanliness.

“You know how I am, I’m forgetful!” 

If he were to find out about the state of Feliciano’s living conditions, Lovino would most likely burst into his home yielding a mop in one hand and ironing board in the other. Feliciano, however, is adamant that emergency spring cleaning sessions can wait for later this year—so he’s careful not to add anything else.

“God, we are no longer related,” Lovino sighs when he’s done, though Feliciano thinks he might be stifling a small smile. “Italians are supposed to be the _emblem of style_ , Feliciano. At least I’m doing my part to keep it that way.”

He’s right. Lovino is always groomed to perfection—elegant shirts that are ironed perfectly, ties only made of the most prized fabrics. He always shaves and wears the shiniest Italian leather shoes—everything he owns proudly wears the label _Made In Italy._

(The only thing that he can’t seem to tame is his hair, though _that_ trait appears to be genetic.) 

Right now, he’s wearing a sleek red tie, paired with incredibly tight pants and a white silk shirt that emphasize his lithe figure. The combination makes Feliciano suspect that Lovino’s motives to look good extend well beyond patriotism—in fact, he’s pretty sure they extend all the way to Antonio Fernandez Carriedo’s desk, not too far away from his—but he wisely decides not to make any snide comments about that. He may like teasing his brother, but he also very much values his life. 

Before Feliciano can say anything, Ludwig walks by again and— _there_ it is, that _look,_ like something is tearing Ludwig apart from the inside, like he feels dizzy or sick or a combination of both.This time, Lovino sees it too, and he has the decency to look just as confused as Feliciano. 

There’s an awkward silence, in which Lovino actually manages to tear his eyes off of Antonio for more than a few seconds. 

“Fine. That was weird.” He concedes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him make. You know. An _expression_. He looked at me like he was going to shit his pants.”

“See! Luddy would never look like that!”

“Holy shit. Never call him Luddy in front of me again. _”_

Feliciano sighs. “Should I ask Francis if I did something wrong?” He asks, looking away. “You know, they always talk.”

“God, don’t ask that French bastard. He’ll probably make some shit up and make you feel worse.

“Francis wouldn’t… _”_ He protests, but he’s too intrigued to defend his friend at the moment. Ludwig’s face had had something familiar, almost heart-wrenching to it. An expression he’s seen many times. On himself, on his brother…and then it hits him. “Oh, Lovino, do you think he got his heart broken by someone?” 

His brother snorts, then waves his hand in the air, all dismissal. “That Beilschmidt bastard? Nah. As if he had a heart to begin with!I think he’s just constipated,” he says, and then looks over at Antonio’s desk again. 

Feliciano sighs, wishing his brother would pay more attention. He’s not dumb—well, okay, maybe he is, but he’s not _that_ dumb. He can tell how badly Lovino wants to talk to Antonio (and do other, less innocent things with him, too). 

And if that’s the only way that Lovino will actually listen to him, then…

“Antonio! Come over here!” He calls. Antonio hears him, visibly perks up, and stands, knocking his water bottle, a stack of paper, and a thesaurus over in his enthusiasm. Lovino’s glare, both incredulous and murderous, goes unnoticed.

If his brother can’t tell how much a certain Spanish journalist likes him, then stupidity just runs in the family.

They watch him walk over to them—he’s smiling, all dimpled and green-eyed, a spring in his step. Feliciano definitely can’t blame his brother for being a little bit in love with Antonio, because really, most people in this office are. He’s kind, funny, intelligent, and a brilliant journalist. Oh, and he’s Spanish, which is kind of hot. Really, he reminds Feliciano of that one song— _tall and tan and young and lovely…_

“Hi, Feliciano,” he says, and his eyes brighten even more when they settle on Lovino. “Lovino."

The latter only grumbles something in response, and pretends to write something down on a paper. 

“We’re talking about how Ludwig is acting a little strange,” Feliciano explains, purposefully ignoring his brother’s face (murderous, incredulous) and throwing an arm over one of Antonio’s broad shoulders. “Have you noticed anything?”

“Maybe,” he answers, looking thoughtful. “But he is always a little unpredictable. I heard that the last time he invited someone to his house it was 2008.”

“That’s just what _I_ said, for fuck’s sake.” Lovino spits out. “I heard the bastard hoards dogs because he’s so damn lonely.”

“I heard he’s got a huge collection of toy soldiers and he’ll get angry if people touch them,” says Antonio, grinning down at him. 

“I heard that he doesn’t even blink, the fucker. He just pretends to so he seems more human.”

“I heard—“

Feliciano wants to laugh, but he is also a little scared, because Ludwig is already scary and these rumours are even scarier, so he interrupts them before it can get worse. “Antonio, you see, I was worried because he’s started to act differently around me, you understand? Seems personal!”

Lovino scoffs. “Ha. It’s almost as if the potato’s in love, or something.”

The words strike an idea in Feliciano’s mind. 

Antonio shrugs and smiles in that sunny way of his. “Don’t worry, little Feli,” he says, ignoring Lovino’s glare at the words. “Ludwig is just a weird man. You should have seen how he looked at me last year on New Year’s! To be fair, his brother was groping me and I was naked, but…” 

Feliciano lets him talk, barely registering Lovino’s horrified expressions. His head is already turning, thinking about the little details he’s noticed in the past few days. 

He’s known for being oblivious—because he is! He didn’t notice when Francis was trying to ask him out—in a glaringly obvious, opposite-of-subtle, screaming-in-your-face, _Francis Bonnefoy_ way. For a whole _year!_ But he’s noticed this, sensed this. How Ludwig looks at him, then at Lovino, back and forth, with apprehension…and when Lovino had walked in on them talking alone the other day, Ludwig had gone positively white…Feliciano thinks about it some more, of what it could mean, and then gasps.

No, everyone has underestimated him. Feliciano isn’t dumb or oblivious at _all—_ he’s a genius.

“Lovino!” He exclaims, interrupting his brother’s streams of profanity “I know you’re going to call me crazy, but I think I know what’s going on. It all makes _sense._ ”

His brother doesn’t look impressed. Antonio looks a little miffed, too—now that Lovino has stopped talking, he doesn't have an excuse to stare at him anymore. 

“Ludwig _is_ in love,” says Feliciano. And then, after a dramatic pause: “With _you.”_

Lovino and Antonio both go red in the face, though Feliciano suspects it’s for two very different reasons.

_“What?”_

**Author's Note:**

> hope ya liked it!


End file.
